Reading Between the Lines
by Orlissa
Summary: Various drabbles and ficlets that are too short to be posted alone. 1 & 2 - ficlets written as Secret Santa gifts for moonbeamsandstarshine on Tumblr
1. Of Christmas Decorations

She grips the old cardboard box nervously, the worn material at the corners denting under her fingers as the elevator lets out a soft ding and the doors slide open. It's silly – both what she is doing and the fact that it's making her nervous. Maybe she shouldn't even make a deal out of it – maybe she should just put the box next to his boxes of stuff and let him find it on his own. If he finds it. Or maybe she shouldn't even do this. Because it's silly.

But then she remembers the picture in his – their – bedroom, the shells they collected together, how they should define their territory together, since they are both alphas, or whatever that stupid book said, and–

Stop overthinking, she scolds herself as she reaches the front door. Overthinking is a foolproof way to a nervous breakdown.

He is in the great room, sprawled on the couch with a book in hand as she enters the loft. Hearing her heels click on the hardwood floor he raises his gaze from the black-and-white of the pages and their eyes lock in an instant. A wide, borderline mischievous smile appears on his face and her heart rate picks up a little in response.

"Please, please tell me that's your kinky box," he says, putting down the book on the coffee table and sitting up.

She doesn't even bother with taking off her coat and boots, simply walks over to him and settles down on the couch next his feet.

"Actually, it's not," she starts with a smile hiding in the corners of her mouth, but eyes fixed on the top of the box, as she absent-mindedly caresses the slightly dusty surface. "It's… These are just Christmas ornaments inside."

She more like feels than sees him shift, leaning closer to her, his face mere inches from hers, their hips almost pressed together, but not saying a word, simply waiting for her to continue.

"Most of them are family heirlooms – we have had them since I can remember –, but we haven't used them since–"

"Since you last put down the tree," he finishes for her, one hand rubbing reassuring circles on her knee.

"They've been collecting dust in Dad's storage unit for more than ten years now, and I though…" she lets out a sigh, "I thought it's time to put them into use again, and since I guess you already got the itch to decorate the loft for Christmas, I brought them over so we could use them here. I mean, if you are okay with it?" she finishes almost shyly.

Instead of answering, he kisses her – soft and slow and sweet, in such way that it makes her fall in love with him all over again.

"Now, let me see them," he says enthusiastically when the kiss ends, already reaching for and lifting the top of her box. "We might have to come up with a brand new color scheme for the decoration to make them fit…"

She just shakes her head as he dives into to box, pulling out delicate glass balls, one after the other.

Her silly, beautiful man.


	2. Should have

She should have kissed him.

It's all she can think of as she chats and smiles and teases over their celebratory of life dinner. She should have kissed him there in the vault, amidst the rumble and smoke and relief. She should have just grabbed his lapels and pulled him to her and fused their lips together. She should have just forgotten everything for a moment – their audience, her walls, his silent promise to wait for her. She should have just kissed him, because he was alive, because he earned it, because she loved him.

But she didn't.

She couldn't.

So she's here now, in his loft with his family, sharing a meal and sipping wine, laughing about silly things, trying to forget what happened today, instead of leading him to her bedroom, mapping his body with her hands and lips, telling him that she remembers, that she is sorry, that she loves him. But she is not ready for that, she knows it (but she can't help but long for it), not yet, so she jokes and teases and sasses, while her palm itches to at least hold his hand. To at least touch him. Just to show a little affection, a little affection above what she usually does. Just to express her feelings in a miniscule, inadequate way. Just to give him hope.

Just to feel his pulse beat steadily under her fingertips.

But she doesn't.

She places her hand on his shoulder and kisses his cheek when she leaves a little while later, slightly light-headed from the wine, her stomach pleasantly full, her spirits high. She draws the moment out, reluctant to move away from him. She rests her cheek against his for a fraction of a second (his skin is warm), and takes a deep breath, inhaling his scent (it is still masked by smoke).

She knows he notices. She feels his hand on her waist twitch, so ready to pull her against his chest.

To never let go of her again.

But in the end, neither of them dares to dive in.

She lowers herself back to the pads of her feet from standing on the tip of her toes (she loves that he is so tall), says thanks for the evening, and then the next moment she is out of the door.

She should have kissed him today, and yet she didn't.

But she will be ready, soon.


End file.
